


The Roundabout Way

by NothingGold



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A lot - Freeform, Actually just leave the bloody bottle, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Cersei Lannister, BAMF Jon Snow, Butterfly Effect, Canon Divergence - Bran Stark Doesn't Fall, Cersei being her gloriously terrible self, Cersei gets what she wants, Cersei is still thirsty for Rhaegar, Dark Jon Snow, Devious Cersei, Eddard Stark’s Incipient Nervous Breakdown, F/M, Family Drama, How many tags can the author think up, Innocent Jon Snow, Jaime is not, Jealous Jaime Lannister, Jon Snow is a Member of the Kingsguard | Queensguard, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Jon and Jaime learn to share, Jon finds out, Jon is good at sharing, M/M, Multi, Ned Needs a Drink, Or Several, R Plus L Equals J | Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen are Jon Snow's Parents, Sortof
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-15 02:13:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29056485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NothingGold/pseuds/NothingGold
Summary: A horse stumbles and the whole world changes. Jaime Lannister breaks his leg before the royal family begins the journey north, leaving Cersei to find other amusements in her twin’s absence.What she finds is Jon Snow—and a secret that will alter her destiny as well as his own.
Relationships: Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister/Jon Snow, Cersei Lannister/Jon Snow, Robert Baratheon/Cersei Lannister
Comments: 37
Kudos: 159





	The Roundabout Way

**Author's Note:**

> This is pure self indulgence. I make no apologies. 😂

Cersei has always hated traveling. She despises the mud and dust of the road, the constant noise of the animals and the cacophony the men traveling in their retinue create. The nauseating but ever-present smell of horse-shit makes her head ache with unparalleled ferocity from dawn till dusk and the interminable boredom of the wheelhouse maddens her. There is nothing about travel that pleases her. Not a single thing.

All Cersei wants to do is rest; she wants to close her weary eyes and escape the tedium and discomfort of travel—but there’s no rest to be had. At least not for her. The rough road makes the wheelhouse heave and rock and thump until Cersei fears her bones might vibrate their way out of her body entirely. She’d always been a light sleeper. Even as a little girl it had only taken the slightest of noises to rouse her and even worse, once she’d been awakened she almost never found her way back to the sweet embrace of slumber. Sleeping in a wheelhouse was impossible—-at least as far as she was concerned. 

Her children are another matter entirely. 

The three of them are sound asleep and have been for nearly two hours, and oh how she envies them their peace. She can’t help but smile ,however, as she watches them from her own seat. They’re slumped against one another like little drunks; Tommen’s head is on Myrcella’s lap and her fingers are threaded into his golden hair and even Joffrey has nodded off with his own head slumped onto on his sister’s shoulder and much to her amusement, Cersei can see that he’s drooling just a bit in his sleep. 

Moments like this are growing rarer and rarer, and so Cersei takes what time she can to appreciate them when they arise. The knowledge that soon they will cease all together is never far from her busy mind. She sighs and looks to the window. This is yet another reason she despises travel. There is all together too much time to think.

In an effort to keep her hands busy, Cersei gives in and retrieves her current embroidery project from it’s basket at her feet and then she allows her mind to wander as it pleases while she works. 

There’s no use in fighting the inevitable. 

Cersei’s hands move with practiced ease over the delicate silk stretched taut over her hoop but her eyes are fixed on her children and it is them that her mind settles on. There is a problem brewing there that she has been reluctant to acknowledge and Cersei finds herself growing ever more worried. 

For all that she pretends to be oblivious to her eldest son’s faults— she isn’t blind. She knows that there is something terribly amiss with Joffrey. Her eldest son has always had a callous streak...and at first that hadn’t troubled her. She was much the same, as was her father. It has served their family well more often than not...but that callous streak has now begun to turn into outright cruelty for its own sake and that concerns Cersei deeply. She recognizes the look in her son’s eyes now and again. However the last time she’d seen it it had been on Aerys Targaryen’s haggard face. The realm won’t willingly endure another Aerys Targaryen. Not with their house only just having taken the throne. 

Oh, she has no doubt that if need be a rebellion could be put down easily enough...but to her mind it would be best to avoid the situation entirely and that means doing something about the matter before it can come to a head. Unfortunately for her, that is easier said than done. Robert cares nothing for the boy, he forgets Joffrey’s existence entirely unless it is to criticize him for one thing or another. Joffrey wants so desperately to please him. To be like him...but Robert doesn’t see it. Jaime can’t be what Joffrey needs. Not safely. Not without exposing them all and her own influence on her wayward son is waning quickly.

Joffrey grows more and more apart from Cersei with every day that passes and even sweet Myrcella has begun to keep her own council on certain things. Even worse, Cersei has noticed that her daughter has begun to flinch whenever Joffrey touches her and that she avoids being alone with her older brother whenever she possibly can. The very thought of it makes Cersei’s guts clench with unease. What she and Jaime do is ....natural. Inevitable. They’re not really two people at all, instead they are two parts of a greater whole. Most importantly, when they lie together it is because they desire to do so. That ...would not be the case with Joffrey and Myrcella. Cersei knows it without question. They are fortunate that no one else has taken note of the change...but that luck will not hold for much longer. Cersei knows her children better than anyone else ever could, and that means that she can see the trouble brewing on the horizon...and it terrifies her.

Gold their crowns. 

Gold their shrouds. 

Maggie the Frog’s prophecy echoes in Cersei’s head even now, twenty years gone by, giving her no peace. She does her best to push the memory away when it arises but even as she does she knows that it won’t stay buried for long. It always returns. Generally when she is at her weakest. In the dark of the night when she doubts herself and her choices. This crooked path she’s chosen. She misses Jaime. Longs for him with an almost physical ache, but unfortunately her twin is beyond her reach—at least for the moment. 

Jaime lies far behind her, leagues away in King’s Landing; confined to his bed with a broken leg and three broken ribs, courtesy of Robert Baratheon’s stupidity. Only days before their departure, her fat fool of a husband had pursued a wounded stag into the Kingswood on horseback and Jaime had been forced to follow him at breakneck speed lest he be left behind. Jaime’s horse had stumbled and as it went down it had crushed Jaime himself beneath it. 

Maester Pycelle told Cersei as she hovered outside of Jaime’s door that her twin was lucky that it was only a leg and a few ribs he’d broken and not his foolish, reckless neck. 

She’d been forced to leave him behind in order to recover. Jaime had begged to go regardless, of course...but the Grandmaester had made it clear that travel was not an option if her brother ever wanted to walk again without a limp. The constant jostling of the road would disrupt his healing and on hearing that Jaime had given way reluctantly; the specter of lameness proving itself enough to make him willing to see reason for once.

So they’d left without him, and for the first time Cersei found herself entirely alone...and it wasn’t an experience she’d particularly enjoyed.

Suddenly the sound of a horn split the air and Cersei fought the profound desire to groan in relief. Thanks be to the Old Gods and the New; they’d at long last reached Winterfell. If Cersei were a woman more prone to tears she might have wept with joy. As it was, She only allowed herself a quiet sigh before waking the children. They would need time to compose themselves before being introduced to the Starks. 

It wasn’t an easy task, and Cersei only barely managed to set them all to rights before the wheelhouse door opened and the light from the courtyard rendered her momentarily blind. 

The children went out first, tumbling into the light like eager ducklings and Cersei herself followed behind at a more decorous pace. She forcefully repressed a moan of relief as she straightened her legs and breathed fresh air for the first time since midday...and then she examined her new surroundings critically. 

Winterfell was....more impressive than she’d anticipated. It was no Casterley Rock, of course, but nowhere was. Even the Red Keep fell short of the Rock. Cersei kept her opinions to herself, however, as she was introduced to the Starks. She did her best to be charming and gracious. It wasn’t an overly difficult task—even though she wasn’t at her best. This was a dance Cersei had mastered long before she’d even bled for the first time and so it took little effort to project the image she wanted; the gracious benevolent queen. Even the Warden of the North’s kiss to the back of her hand wasn’t particularly odious... much to her surprise. 

For a moment Cersei allowed herself to envy Catelyn Stark her good fortune. Eddard Stark had aged far better than her own husband had done —and it was plain for all to see. Lord Stark was still hale and lean; with a hard sort of handsomeness that had weathered the years very well indeed. If anything, age had actually improved the man. What had looked blunt and clumsy on the boy was regal and well proportioned on the man. He had grown into himself...while Robert had only gone to pot from too much wine and too many whores.

The rest of Cersei’s day passed in a blur of faces and pleasantries until the feast. Midway though, Cersei was grinding her teeth in sheer frustration. Robert seemed to be once again doing his level best to shame her before the eyes of the entire North and Cersei was weary past bearing of poorly concealed pity in Catelyn Stark’s eyes. 

It was the work of a moment to excuse herself, something Cersei never would have done were they still in King’s Landing. She didn’t give Lady Stark the opportunity to question her....and she commanded her guards to stay behind and watch over the children. She wanted no prying eyes. Right now she was sick to death of the lot of them and without Jaime she had no friendly ear or support. 

So she retreated. 

Just this once. 

Surely she was entitled to spend at least one night without watching her drunkard of a husband groping any passably attractive female within arms reach.

Once away from prying eyes —she wandered. There was more than enough space for her to lose herself in within the walls of the great keep and so that was exactly what she did. Against her will—and much to her surprise—she found that she rather liked the ancient castle. Winterfell was massive and there was an ancient feel to the place that reminded her pleasantly of the Rock. In fact, she liked it far better than she did the Red Keep. The Red Keep was young compared to the Rock and Winterfell, only a few hundred years old; while Winterfell itself was nearly ten thousand years old and the Rock not much younger than that. Age lent Winterfell a familiarity that the Red Keep had always lacked.

It was the sound of steel on wood and the crunch of straw that drew Cersei aside and into the training yard from her aimless path. The sound had caught her attention but it was curiosity that prodded her to go and investigate. She was eager for a diversion from her own dark thoughts and a mystery was as good a distraction as any. After all, who would be training at this time of night when there was a feast in progress?

Her answer was a young man with dark hair who was relentlessly thrashing a training dummy as if the thing owed him money. Cersei allowed herself to watch for a few minutesfrom the shadows, smothering a smile as she listened to the boy cursing under his breath colorfully. 

“I rather think you’ve killed it by now.” Cersei said dryly, entirely to see what the boy would do if startled. Her answer was even more entertaining than she’d hoped for. The dark haired lad misses his swing and the momentum of it sends him crashing to the ground in a graceless heap of awkward limbs and pot-metal blade.

W

Cersei only barely managed to smother her laughter as she watched the lad get to his feet again. He looked so terribly embarrassed that it was almost endearing. The moment he recognizes her his embarrassment turns into an expression of mortified horror. “Y...your grace?” He stammers, eyes fixed on Cersei’s face as if he can’t believe that she’s actually there and deigning to speak to him at all.

The boy is absolutely _precious_. 

The moonlight is bright enough to show her his face now that he’s facing her and Cersei is surprised to find that he’s beautiful. She hadn’t expected to find much beauty in the North..yet here it was regardless. More importantly, now that she can see his face clearly Cersei realizes that she does in fact recognize the boy. 

This is Jon Snow.

Eddard Stark’s bastard.

How fascinating!

“Come walk with me, boy. I find myself in want of an escort...and you shall serve well enough for the moment.” Her words are a command and it’s clear that the boy knows it because he doesn’t hesitate to return his training blade to it’s barrel and cross the yard to her side. When he reaches her he bows low, lower than any of the other Starks had done, and Cersei finds herself somewhat mollified by his humility. 

At least ONE Stark knows their place.

“Walk me to your Godswood.” She says, and the boy looks painfully confused as she takes his arm...almost as if he fears she’ll bite him, but Jon Snow doesn’t question her. He only obeys, as well he should, and walks with Cersei into the night. As they round a corner together she hear the distant sound of the gate opening but neither of them pay it any mind. Snow, because he seems preoccupied with trying not to make a fool of himself in front of his Queen and she because she doesn’t care who it might be. 

Cersei is already quite well occupied.

As they pass the gate into the gloom of the Godswood Cersei finds herself rather awed by the sheer size of the trees surrounding them. They’re gargantuan, ancient things that dwarf every other tree that she’s has ever seen. Imposing and magnificent—-it is all too easy to feel small in their presence. The pair of them walk in silence for a time, neither speaking, but eventually it is Cersei who breaks the silence.

“So, what is it that has a handsome young man such as yourself thrashing a training dummy in the middle of the night when there is mead and food to be had in the hall?” She keeps her voice light, friendly, with only the faintest hint of mockery at the edges.

“What is it that has a Queen paying notice to a bastard in the middle of the night?” 

The boy’s reply is a delight and it takes everything within Cersei’s body not to grin. Snow looks like he regrets the words even as they leave his lips. Horrified by his own unthinking honesty. The expression and the words combined startle a genuine laugh out of her entirely against her will. A sharp, barking sound that bears no resemblance at all to the polite titter she ordinarily employs. Her real laughter has always been rather...inelegant. 

“I’ll tell you if you’ll tell me.” Cersei replies slyly. 

Snow is silent for a long moment, his face going solemn and thoughtful. As she watches him, Cersei feels a nagging sort of familiarity prod at her from the depth of her memory. As if she’d seen him somewhere before...but she can’t quite put her finger on where or when it might have been. 

“Lady Stark didn’t want me offending Your Graces with my presence in the feast-hall...so she sent me to the kitchens to keep me out of sight.” Snow’s answer is quiet and carefully devoid of feeling. 

Cersei isn’t fooled in the slightest by his false calm. 

“I was tired of watching my husband fornicate with servants in front of me. Comparatively, keeping company with a bastard offends me a great deal less than keeping company with Robert Baratheon. ‘ Cersei paused for half a breath before finishing. “...At least for the present moment.” 

Jon Snow’s face has gone red with embarrassment at her confession and Cersei allows herself a moment to enjoy the boy’s discomfort. He’s artless, her pretty bastard. Not a shred of guile in him that she can see and after so long trapped in the pit of vipers that is King’s Landing Cersei finds that the boy’s honesty is ...refreshing. 

“Have I shocked you, Jon Snow?” She asks, just to see what he will say. They pause under the canopy of a younger Weirwood, red leaves drifting around them and Cersei watches the boy struggle with himself to find the right words.

“...a little, Your Grace.” Snow confesses eventually. “I suppose I don’t understand why a man would bother with servants when he has you for a wife. There’s not a single girl in this castle that could match you for beauty, Your Grace.” 

He means it, Cersei realizes with a quiet sort of surprise; she can see it gleaming in the boy’s pretty dark eyes. Jon Snow genuinely means what he’s saying..and as far as she can tell he also isn’t attempting to bed her. It is an entirely new experience for her, this sort of honesty. His appreciation salves her wounded pride like nothing else ever has. Cersei is well aware that her beauty will begin to fade soon enough. It’s already begun. The evidence is reflected back at her in her looking glass every morning. There are creases forming at the corners of her eyes and her bosom is less full than it had been even just three years gone. Time is catching up to her but this pretty boy seems oblivious to it. When Snow looks at her he doesn’t see a wilting flower—-he only sees a beauty. 

“A question I’ve been asking myself as well since the day I married him.” Cersei replies, studying the boy’s face. He looks a little like Ned Stark but on closer inspection Cersei realizes that it is mostly his similar coloring that makes it so. His dark hair and eyes make the boy’s resemblance seem far more profound than it actually is. On closer inspection —-he actually looks precious little like the Warden of the North. Jon Snow’s features are finer and far more elegant than the elder Stark’s, and there is a fullness to his mouth that Ned Stark lacks entirely. “If you ever figure out the answer, do let me know.” 

Cersei doesn’t bother to hide her bitterness. Why should she? Who will the Bastard of Winterfell tell, and who would believe him even if he did? 

Not a single soul. 

Cersei knows that already.

They travel in silence for a while. Jon Snow lost in thought and Cersei enjoying the quiet peace of the Godswood but when the two of them reach the Heart Tree Cersei entirely forgets how to breathe. It’s a beautiful place. Beautiful in a way that even the finest manicured gardens of the Reach could never hope to match. There is something _magical_ about it that defies both description and explanation. No Sept Cersei has ever been in has ever felt so holy. It shames even the Great Sept of Baelor with its easy grandeur.

There is a steaming hot-spring at the base of the great tree and the mist it produces is perilously appealing, it makes Cersei want to put her feet in the water to see if it is as pleasant as it looks; but when she turns to ask the boy if such a thing is permissible...her breath freezes in her lungs and her heart skips a beat in her chest.

Cersei now knows exactly who it is that the boy reminds her of. 

The light of the full moon gleams on Jon Snow’s raven hair, coating it in pallid silver and the shadows have made his dark eyes more wine than rich dark earth. Standing there in the moonlight by her side is the ghost of a young Rhaegar Targaryen. Cersei had loved the Silver Prince from the first time she’d ever laid eyes on him. He’d smiled at her and kissed her hand and she’d been lost. She had memorized his face over and over again. Had spent hours imagining their lives together once she finally became his wife. Those dreams had been crushed, first by The Mad King, then by Robert Baratheon’s Warhammer. Yet here Rhaegar stands beside her once more. The resemblance is unmistakable...and abruptly everything makes a terrible sort of sense. Cersei realizes with rapidly swelling admiration that Eddard Stark is more cunning than she had ever imagined him capable of being. 

Eddard Stark returned from the Tower of Joy with a babe and his sister’s bones....and he’d claimed that the child was his own bastard; a lie the world believed because Eddard Stark was a man of honor whose word was beyond reproach. If he claimed that he had erred—the world accepted it as truth but the honorable Eddard Stark had lied. Jon Snow wasn’t Eddard Stark’s bastard at all. 

He was Lyanna’s; sired on her by the man who’d kidnapped and violated her and Cersei would bet every coin in Casterly Rock that Lyanna Stark had not died of a fever—but instead in childbed just as her mother before her had done. 

A wave of hot possession scorches its way through Cersei’s body like a fiery tide and she feels herself go slick between her thighs. She feels choked by a hunger that she’d imagined herself long since past feeling. Yet she does. She feels it. The same obsessive, driving need that had once sent her to her own twin’s bed. Cersei wants him, this lovely, guileless boy. She wants to push him down onto the soft moss and take him inside of her and ride him until he _weeps_ with pleasure and can’t imagine going a day without her favor. 

Without her touch. 

She wants to make her name the only word he remembers. 

Rhaegar Targaryen was the only thing Cersei had ever wanted that she hadn’t gotten...and now the gods, in their eternal wisdom, have given her a second chance. Bastard Jon Snow might be—but the boy is Rhaegar’s flesh and blood and the idea of fucking him while her fat oaf of a husband thinks his great enemy gone from the world forever makes Cersei positively seethe with lust. 

She wants him and she will _have_ him...one way or another.


End file.
